


Tease and Tease and Tear to Bits

by providentialeyes



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Medical, Minor Injuries, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Reconciliation, Self-Esteem Issues, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22891501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/providentialeyes/pseuds/providentialeyes
Summary: “You wanna lay down?” Arthur asks, “Or talk?”“... Lay down?” John whispers, hovering at the entrance to Arthur’s tent.“That an answer, or you askin’ for a definition?”“It was an answer,” John says weakly.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 211





	Tease and Tease and Tear to Bits

Arthur joked a lot. 

Not cruel, necessarily, but it was a constant habit of his to tease and pick at John. 

It’d always been like that, and at first, it had terrified John.

Little jokes about leaving John behind when he wasn’t as good of a horseman and would get stuck on uneven terrain, forcing Arthur to wait as he caught up. 

Insincere threats of selling John to the highest bidder when he was getting on Arthur’s nerves.

It panicked him then, not sure where the line was, when Arthur or Dutch or the gang in general would tire of him dragging behind. 

John never voiced his concerns over his place in the gang, over his value, his security. 

It’d been obvious that when he joined Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, and Miss Grimshaw made a tight-knit, highly-capable quartet, so from the get-go he felt like he was balancing on the edge of an established foundation, trying not to encroach on the way things worked. 

But he was an extra mouth to feed, an extra fast-growing body that needed new clothes every season until they figured out Arthur and Hosea’s old clothes with a couple of tacked stitches and a belt with a new hole punched in it worked just as well.

Miss Grimshaw sat him down and taught him the basic stitches so she wouldn’t have to keep taking in and letting out each garment as he grew. 

It was soothing, oddly enough, though he never let the rest of the gang see him doing it. He kept his needle and thread in a little metal tin on the crate next to his bedroll, did all his sewing when Arthur was asleep. 

For the first few years Dutch only let him do chores around camp, so he learned to build and maintain the fires, to care for the chickens and horses, to wash clothes, and to fish if they were close to water. 

Now that he was older he was allowed to help Arthur on bounties and small jobs, but he still felt like he wasn’t worth his weight. 

And Arthur only drove that feeling home with his _jokes._

\--

They got back from an easy coach job not too long ago, and with the adrenaline fading John’s really starting to feel like shit. 

His head is throbbing. 

\--

He glares at Arthur over his knees, hugging his legs tightly. 

His cheeks are ruddy and wet from crying. 

He hates that Arthur saw, that Arthur was the cause. 

“Grief,” Arthur mutters, “S’just some teasin’. You’re well and grown, John, why you bawlin’ like a kid?”

John sniffs sharply and ducks his head. 

It _had_ been teasing, born of Arthur getting frustrated with John’s inability to get the hang of landing a lasso.

_‘Christ, don’t know how you convinced to Dutch to keep you ‘round this long, how slow you are.’_

Silence stretches between them for a few minutes. 

Then Arthur’s hand settles on John’s shoulder and the younger flinches, curling up tighter. 

The hand on his shoulder lifts but he can feel the warmth of it hovering. 

“John?” Arthur asks quietly, tone heavy with confusion. 

“Sorry,” John says hoarsely, face nearly buried in his knees, “I’ll work on it.”

“... It ain’t that urgent,” Arthur says slowly, hesitantly. 

John sniffs and rubs at his face roughly. 

The warmth near his shoulder retreats, followed by Arthur’s footsteps. 

\--

John kneels at the edge of the small stream running through the woods near camp, letting the cool water run over the rope-burn on his palms. 

Maybe it hadn’t been wise to practice his roping on the wild horses in the fields near town. 

John tentatively closes his hands into fists, wincing at the sting. 

“What’d you do?” Arthur asks from behind him and John startles, pulling his hands close to his stomach like a child caught sneaking treats before supper. 

“What?” John asks quickly. 

“Your hands,” Arthur rolls his eyes, “What happened?”

“Nothin’,” John says and rises to his feet, “They’re fine.”

He turns to walk away and Arthur grabs his closed fists. 

John can’t quite muffle the pained sound in time and it slips free. 

His cheeks burn and he ducks his head as Arthur bullies his fingers into uncurling. 

Arthur whistles lowly, pushing the blunt tip of his thumb at the edge of the raw skin. 

“‘Nothin’’ huh?” Arthur murmurs, “Looks like you got into a fight with a rope n’ lost to me.”

John doesn’t fight Arthur checking his other hand, keeping his eyes low. 

“C’mon,” Arthur says and encircles John’s forearm with one hand, pulling the younger along with him. 

\--

“I cleaned ‘em up fine ‘nough,” John mutters, “Don’t need no ‘healin’ paste’.”

“You’d rather risk it goin’ yellow and putrid like your thumb did that time you burnt it?”

John wrinkles his nose, watching as Arthur opens the tin and points at the older man’s cot, indicating for John to sit. 

“Don’t mean you need to waste that shit on me.”

“It ain’t a ‘waste’,” Arthur says, frowning down at John as the younger sits, “A waste would be you useless as grub, stuck in with a fever ‘cause you don’t like the way healin’ salve smells.”

John presses his lips together tightly, scowling down at his hands. 

“It’s expensive,” John whispers after a moment. 

“You think Dutch is gonna get in a fit over a couple dollars if it keeps you from keelin’ over?”

John shrugs slowly. 

Arthur rather quickly drops to a crouch in front of him and John meets the older man’s eyes hesitantly. 

“He won’t,” Arthur says slowly, brows heavily furrowed. 

“Alright,” John whispers. 

Arthur holds out one hand, salve smeared on the fingertips of his other hand. 

John sets his hand in Arthur’s and winces when his skin stings and cracks as he opens his fist. 

“Damn,” Arthur mutters, “Just like you don’t start with shootin’ at people to learn, you don’t start with ropin’ animals.”

“... I did,” John says quietly. 

“What?”

“I _did_ start with shootin’ fellas,” John’s fingers twitch as Arthur smooths the salve over the open skin, “Couldn’t waste bullets, had to make ‘em count.”

Arthur pauses, studying him for a moment then resuming carefully coating each raw area. 

“Well, you ain’t gon’ waste rope on a post,” Arthur says gently, “So, start there.”

\--

“Lemme see,” Arthur murmurs tiredly as he sits down right next to John by the fire. 

“What?”

“Your hands.”

John ducks his head and uncurls his arms from hugging himself, holding his hands out to Arthur. 

“Hm,” Arthur angles John’s hands towards the firelight, prods the edges of the healing wounds, now matte and pink with newly healed skin, no longer stinging at every touch but still tender. 

John bites his tongue against his protests at the pain, watching the older man’s fingers moving over his hands. 

“They look alright,” Arthur says and, after a moment, lets go. 

John slowly returns his arms to hugging himself. 

The older man grumbles as he gets to his feet, stretching his palms towards the night sky. 

“Go to sleep, John,” Arthur says quietly as he passes behind the younger, briefly resting his hand on John’s shoulder. 

\--

Arthur’s been staring at him, on and off, for the last half-hour. 

John finally lifts his head at the right moment and catches the older man. 

“What?” He asks, biting, exhausted. 

“You sick?” Arthur asks. 

“No?”

“You look sick,” Arthur says with a vague gesture at John’s face, “Tired.”

“... Just ain’t sleepin’ great,” John mutters. 

“Hm.”

\--

“Why ain’t you sleepin’?” Arthur asks quietly, having turned back around after he’d started heading to turn in for the night. 

“... Nightmares,” John says weakly. 

“Oh,” Arthur shifts and rubs at the side of his face, “They came back?”

"Never really left."

Arthur frowns heavily down at him. 

"You used to come to me when you had 'em," Arthur says quietly. 

John sniffs and looks down at his clasped hands. 

"... Come on," Arthur says, turning and walking towards his tent. 

John quickly hops up to follow, cautiously watching the back of Arthur's head.

\--

“You wanna lay down?” Arthur asks, “Or talk?”

“... Lay down?” John whispers, hovering at the entrance to Arthur’s tent.

“That an answer, or you askin’ for a definition?”

“It was an answer,” John says weakly. 

Arthur watches him for a moment then sighs, moving to the crate next to his bedroll and pulling off his holsters. 

“I know, Johnny,” Arthur says tiredly, “I was just teasin’.”

“Oh.”

Arthur looks back at him. 

“You wanna share tonight, right?” Arthur asks slowly, “I ain’t misreadin’ you?”

John looks down at his hands then moves over to Arthur’s bedroll, kicking off his boots and laying down on the far edge. 

Arthur lowers himself to sit next to John, pulling off his boots as well. 

When Arthur settles and pulls his blanket up, reaching his arm out and over John in an obvious invitation, the younger man doesn't hesitate to wiggle closer and burrow into Arthur's chest. 

Arthur's arm drops, locking John in place with a heaviness that should make him feel trapped.

Instead, he feels safe.

“What are the nightmares?”

“Same ol’...” John mutters, turning his face to press his cheek against Arthur’s collarbone, feeling the older man’s soothing warmth. 

“Why’re they worse all the sudden?”

John shrugs lightly, closing his eyes. 

Arthur sighs, pressing his palm square between John’s shoulder-blades. 

\--

Arthur falls asleep within minutes. 

John lays for hours, every moment almost slipping under disrupted by a sudden image behind closed eyes. 

It cycles through the classics like Dutch's gramophone. 

Noose. Lake. Forest. Death. 

John rubs at his eyes, burning in protest of the only solution to avoiding his fears. 

Focusing on Arthur. 

He picks different things to focus on each time.

Freckles. Scars. Hairs. Breaths.

He's forty breaths in when he falls asleep.

\--

"John."

"C'mon, it's alright."

John reaches out before opening his eyes, curling his hand around Arthur's waist, squeezing to know he's real.

"Hey," Arthur whispers, the fingers on John's cheek flexing, moving down to cup the side of the younger man's neck.

John hums a weak, apologetic sound in response and ducks his head

"Shh," Arthur's thumb presses into the pulse of his neck lightly, "You're fine."

“Sorry,” John whispers. 

“John…” Arthur murmurs tiredly, “Why are you apologizin’?”

“I- I’m not tryin’ to be a bother,” John says weakly, “I know you offered but I can… I can leave.”

Arthur frowns heavily at him, his fingers shifting on the side of John’s neck. 

“You ain’t botherin’ me,” Arthur says, gently rubbing his thumb over John’s pulse, “I just thought this would help.”

“It’s better… Not wakin’ up alone.”

"Then stay here, alright?" Arthur asks sleepily.

"... You sure?" John whispers. 

Arthur squints and uses his grip on John’s neck to tug the younger man in close, startling John. 

John tenses for a moment, his forehead pressed to the base of Arthur’s neck. 

He stares at Arthur’s chest, exposed by the unbuttoned panel of the henley Arthur’s wearing. 

“Sorry,” John whispers again, the word audibly weak and emotionally loaded.

“Stop apologizin’,” Arthur mutters, moving his hand to cup the back of John’s head, “Go to sleep, John, you’re safe.”

John closes his eyes tightly, feels himself being soothed by Arthur. 

Arthur’s words, touch, presence. 

The promise of protection. 

The sticky, messy glue of kinder words, piecing every shred ripped from him by a stinging insult over the last decade back together.


End file.
